The Power of Kings
by Midnight Rose Princess
Summary: Holmes had said that Watson had "unexplored possibilities." He did not, however, realize that the doctor was part of the mysterious underground organization known as the Order of Geass, led by a mysterious woman known as C.C. A/N: No PAIRINGS
1. The Unexpected Letter

**Title: **The Power of Kings

**Authoress: **MidnightRosePrincess

**Summary: **Holmes had said that Watson had "unexplored possibilities." He did not, however, realize that the doctor was part of the mysterious underground organization known as the Order of Geass, led by a mysterious woman known as C.C..

**Genre: **Mystery/Adventure/Crossover (btw Sherlock Holmes/Code Geass),

**Midnight's Note: **Inspired after reading _A Study in Scarlet_ and watching the complete dvd box set of Granada Sherlock Holmes, I decided to give this plot bunny a shot, to see if it can hold its own. I recalled that there were 8 thought elevators worldwide in Code Geass, and one happened to be near the British Isles. Thus, I thought, _What if Watson was a Geass user, who'd gotten it in his time serving in Afghanistan?_ As a result, this story was born. As a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes Canon (& only a few adaptations, none more so than Granada), I hope that my characterization of Holmes and Watson is accurate enough, given the situations that they will be presented with in this story. I take liberties with Watson's past, considering he never really embellishes on his time in war save for _A Study in Scarlet_, and he never speaks of his brother besides the fact he owns his pocket watch. As for C.C. I think her character will be mostly the same. Of course, Lelouch was the one who got her to show emotions, and considering that he isn't in existence yet, she'll be a bit more detached as expected. Due to the events of the story, I will have to write it in third person, not in Watson's POV, considering this story will focus on a good deal of characters. As to when this takes place, I'm still figuring that part out. But it for sure takes place quite a bit after Holmes' return in _The Empty __House_. That said, enjoy. ^_^

**Warning: **I welcome reviews, especially those with constructive criticism (if said criticism is given in a polite tone, for if you merely complain but offer no solution, I will take it as a flame and pay you no mind). Obviously, flames are prohibited. But, if some do manage to come my way, I will just use them to warm me up some hot chocolate to drink as I start the next chapter. ^_^

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

**"The Unexpected Letter"**

It was a pleasant evening in Baker Street according to Watson. Despite the storm beginning to brew in the clouds outside, the inside of 221b was in a state of comfortable domesticity. Mrs. Hudson was currently working on dinner, while he himself and Holmes spent their time in the sitting room. Holmes was playing violin while looking out the window at the moment, still satisfied from the ideal outcome of the case that had engaged them for the previous week. Watson himself had just finished copying the case down into his collection, wondering if it would be one of the ones he'd eventually publish. To anyone else, this normalcy could seem quite boring, but to Watson, it felt comforting in its simplicity.

More often than not, these periods of inactivity risked Holmes going into one of his black moods. However, the period of inactivity had not even passed two days, it was obvious that, at least for the moment, Holmes was taking pleasure in the calm the evening presented. By the tune coming from the string of his violin, he was, for all accounts, cheerful that they were once again back home.

But, as always, the moments of quiet never lasted long at 221b Baker Street.

"It would appear that our mail is being delivered," Holmes stated without a pause in his playing.

"I'll retrieve it," Watson said as he stood, "seeing as how Mrs. Hudson is busy preparing dinner."

He received a small hum of acknowledgement from his friend, and proceeded to go out of the room to the front door. The mail carrier gave him a bundle of letters, all addressed to 221b Baker Street. No doubt, they were requests from prospective clients seeking Holmes' help. The carrier looked as though he were in a rush, which Watson correctly assumed was to beat the incoming weather. He bid the carrier good luck and shut the door, going back into the sitting room.

"Anything of interest, Watson?" Holmes asked, stopping his playing to sit in his chair after placing the violin upon a stack of books.

Watson looked through the letters as he sat on the settee, glancing each one over for any detail that was eye-catching. "They all appear to be normal requests, Holmes, save for a few that have an aristocratic seal." He passed the half of the stack he'd gone through to Holmes for further inspection, knowing Holmes could spot an infinite amount of more details. Watson continued to look through the last half as Holmes inspected the 1st.

"I can deduce some details about the senders, but I admit that I won't know which case presents the most promise until I read their contents," said Holmes.

"Then you have quite a bit of reading to do, my dear friend," Watson replied as he began to glance over the last three. The first two were just like the rest, but he suddenly froze as his sight saw the last letter. His eyes almost locked on the bottom left corner of the envelope.

"I say, Watson, why have you suddenly gone as stiff as a statue?" Holmes queried.

Watson came back to himself with a bit of a shake. "Oh, nothing," he stammered. "It's just that... this letter is directed to me," he explained, handing Holmes the rest of the letters.

"Surely it's not that rare an occurrence," Holmes said, taking the stack handed to him. "Stamford sends you post when in need of your medical advice, does he not?"

"That he does," Watson agreed, opening the envelope, "But this letter is from one of my former comrades from Afghanistan."

Holmes looked interested in this, but let Watson read the letter as he looked through the last letters addressed to him. As Watson read the written words, old memories, not all pleasant, came back to him relentlessly. However, he knew he had to keep his composure, lest he make Holmes suspicious. So he calmed himself of the panic that the initial arrival of the letter caused, and relaxed the strain on his muscles.

"Is it negative news?" Holmes asked, looking at him curiously.

Watson sent his friend a smile . "No, dear chap, just a message saying hello and requesting a get-together to catch up with each other for old time's sake."

"Who is this friend of yours, and, if I may ask, what was his position in Afghanistan?" Holmes asked. "If you two are aquainted, he must have been in medical."

Watson kept his smile from growing. _'Oh, if only you knew, Holmes', _Watson thought. Any other time, Watson would have started to be impressed by Holmes' use of logic, but this was a topic that Holmes had no idea of. Hopefully, it would stay that way. Though, knowing his luck, that probably would not be the case. But he could hope.

"For once, my dear Holmes, you are mistaken," Watson said jovially.

Holmes looked surprised. "How far am I off the mark then, dear Watson?" he asked with much curiosity. He was not often wrong even in his preliminary theories, so any exception begged a correction.

_'Typical Holmes,' _Watson thought, _'You desire the facts. But I'm afraid I must lie to you for your own good, my friend.'_ With this thought firmly in mind, he invented a believable and likely story to give to the detective. "My friend was not in the medical field at all. I daresay he knows more than the average person about the human body, but, alas, he does not have interest in it, and therefore believes that he would not do as well in it as those with an interest will."

"I see," said Holmes. "So what field does this friend occupy?"

"He was in communications," Watson said. "Once we got into deeper territory, we had to keep in touch as effectively as we could manage. I met him when one of the other brigade's doctor needed to know if we had medical supplies we could spare that their commanding officer was in dire need of. He sought me out so that the reply and supplies could be sent on their way. Over the course of the next few months, whenever any medical provisions needed to be shared, he always knew where to find me and Murray."

Holmes nodded as he listened to Watson's legend, which Watson had presented as though they were facts. "Murray was your orderly, who carried you out of battle, correct?" he asked.

"Yes," Watson answered, for that fact was true. "I owe Murray my life."

Holmes nodded again before asking, "And the name of this friend who wishes to meet with you?"

"Austen Bennett," Watson answered.

"How long will you be gone?"

Watson seemed to look up to think for a minute, before his face settled and he turned to Holmes to answer, "About a week, if I catch the train tonight."

"Then you'll want to start packing, dear Watson, if you intend to catch the next train."

Watson was about to reply when a knocking was heard on the door and someone entered. A familiar voice rang down the hall, "Mr. Holmes? Are you here?"

"In here, Lestrade," Holmes called, and sure enough, the figure of Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard entered the room. He looked frazzled and out of breath.

"Heavens!" Watson exclaimed, "You look as if you've run here all the way from the East End!"

"That's because I have, Dr. Watson," Lestrade replied. "I was down there this morning to talk with some of the younger constables who called for assistance when there was a sudden discovery. There's been a murder of a young lawyer down in the East End. But from his law papers, we confirmed that he's from West End, not too far from here."

"Has anything been moved?" Holmes said quickly, his eyes glittering with the familiar interest only a case could cause.

"Not yet, but if we don't get down there in the next hour, we may not have a chance to get to it before the coroner," Lestrade answered in haste. It was now evident why he'd run all the way here as soon as he was notified.

"Then what are we standing here for?" Holmes said, grabbing his coat and hat.

"Isn't Dr. Watson-?" Inspector Lestrade began.

"The good Doctor has a previous engagement," Holmes told him, urging Lestrade to the front door. He turned back to Watson, "I'll relay you all the details of this case for your collection when you return, dear Watson."

Watson nodded, even though Holmes was already down the hallway and at the front door.

"Mr. Holmes!" came Mrs. Hudson's voice, "Dinner-"

"-will have to become supper, I'm afraid, Mrs. Hudson. Don't wait up." With that, the front door shut, and Watson was sure they were already hailing a cab to make the trip faster. He shook his head ruefully. Whenever Holmes was working on a case, almost everything else slipped his mind, including Watson. However, this was one time when Watson was grateful for it.

"Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked, seeing him still in the room, "Aren't you going to accompany Mr. Holmes?"

Watson stood, "Not this time, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid I must go meet an old acquaintance of mine for a week."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Then you'd better go pack, Doctor, while I put dinner away for Mr. Holmes."

Watson nodded, and went up the steps to his room while Mrs. Hudson proceeded back to the kitchen. Once in his own room and sitting on his bed, Watson breathed deeply, clutching the letter at his side. He knew what this letter meant, and he also knew that he was lucky. Had a case not distracted Holmes, he was sure it would have only been a matter of time before Holmes noticed the discrepancies in his story. He didn't want to lie to his dear friend, but this was something beyond Holmes' comprehension, beyond the complexity of even the late Moriarty's evil crime ring, he was sure. This was the one part of his past he'd hidden, not only from Holmes, but from all who knew him except those involved.

He had known something like this was coming. It had been quite a stretch of time since the last time someone had checked in on him. He had supposed it had something to do with his publication of his memoirs of the cases he and Sherlock Holmes had done. What better way had they to know what he was up to than reading the cases he published in the Strand? Sighing, he reread the letter, knowing only he could see the bird-shaped symbol on the bottom corner of the envelope and letter. He pulled a ticket from the envelope, one he'd been sure not to show in front of Holmes.

Taking out a pen from his nightstand drawer, as well as a slip of paper, he wrote a note to Holmes, just in case the worse could happen. _'Is this how you felt when writing me the note at Reichenbach, Holmes?' _he thought sadly, _'I guess now I know why you had to say so much in so little.' _After about 7 minutes, Watson was done with the letter and folded it. Getting up from the bed, he took the letter he'd received and put it back in the envelope it came with. Then he pushed his bed across the floor about two feet and kneeled down. Lifting up a loose floorboard, he revealed a small space wherein lied an old journal. He pulled the journal from its storage place and slipped the envelope into the back after the very last page. Then he placed it back inside the hidey hole, put the floorboard back into place, and pulled his bed back to its original position.

He got a satchel bag out of his dresser and put a few spare clothes and essentials into it, taking only what he needed and leaving his medical bag. He was sure if he needed any medical supplies, it would be provided for him where he was going. Done with his packing, only one thing remained: the note he'd left for Holmes.

Watson went back downstairs and met Mrs. Hudson on his way down said stairs.

"Oh, Doctor, you're done packing already?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She smiled, "Have a safe trip."

Watson smiled back at the landlady. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. May I ask a favor of you before I take my leave?"

"Of course, Doctor," she said, sounding surprised.

He handed her the folded note he'd written for Holmes. "If I don't come back in a week's time as expected, will you give this to Holmes for me?"

"Of course, Doctor Watson," Mrs. Hudson said, holding the letter as if it were the most precious task handed to her, which, little did she know, it might actually be.

"Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, going down the rest of the stairs and to the front door. "Make sure Holmes does eat at least half a plate for supper," he said before opening the door, "Otherwise he won't have the energy to get anything on the new case done."

"I'll see that he does," Mrs. Hudson replied, waving as Watson went out and shut the door.

Once outside, Watson noticed that the rain was about to start drizzling down. He wondered idly if the mail carrier had gotten done or if Holmes and Lestrade had made it to the crime scene. There was no way to know for sure, though. He hailed a cab, and sat himself in the hansom.

"Where to, guv?" asked the cabbie.

"St. James Music Hall," he answered.

The cabbie gave a snap on the reins and the horse pulled them through the streets of London. Within no time, St. James Music Hall came into view. People were arriving and flooding in to see the much-anticipated concert of one of the finest cello players in Europe. The cabbie pulled the hansom up to the curb outside the front doors and stopped. Watson got out and gave the cabbie an extra two shillings for getting him there so quickly without having been asked. As the cabbie drove off to collect new passengers, Watson made his way inside the Hall. He gave his ticket to the front desk clerks past the lobby, noting the weird looks he got from his casual dress. Not too long later, he found himself in one of the box seats that, by position and design, was hard for anyone to see from anywhere else in the Hall. He took the seat that had been on his ticket and waited.

It was almost time for the concert to begin, and everyone was taking their seats. There was a rustle of fabric near him, when a voice he hadn't heard in years but recognized in an instant spoke.

"You didn't even dress for the occasion, even after I went through all the trouble to get you a ticket," the female voice spoke. "How very ungentlemanly of you."

Watson looked to his right at the woman who had sat down next to him. She wore a red dress with black lace, and red hat with a black-netted veil falling around her head from its base. Behind the material, he could see bright green hair pulled up in rivulets beneath the hat except for the hair across her forehead, which accentuated her golden-amber eyes.

"It is a pleasure to see you again as well," he replied, "Lady C.C."

The lights of the concert hall dimmed, hiding them from view as the notes of a cello solo filled the air.

**End of Chapter One**

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><p><strong>Midnight: <strong>Hope you all enjoyed chapter one. I think it's off to a great start. More details will be explained next chapter, wherein Holmes begins to realize all is not as it seems. Until next time, readers.


	2. A Missing Boswell

**Title: **The Power of Kings

**Authoress:** MidnightRosePrincess

**Summary:** Holmes had said that Watson had "unexplored possibilities." He did not, however, realize that the doctor was part of the mysterious underground organization known as the Order of Geass, led by a mysterious woman known as C.C..

**Genre:** Mystery/Adventure/Crossover (btw Sherlock Holmes/Code Geass),

**Midnight's Note: **Hello, all. One of my proofreaders said that beacause of the length of Watson's letter (which you will, in a few moments, read), either he wrote fast or had more than 7 minutes. But as I explained to her, Watson has been prepared for something like this happening. I'm sure he would have done a few drafts before and knew what he wanted to say in its entirety. So, that explains how he knew exactly what to write in so little time. Also, as for the gap between this second chapter, I was busy with research on the Afghan war Watson took part in and also dealing with AP exams and graduation. But I'm back (with two more stories on the way and hopefully updates for my old ones if I can get my muse back).

**Warning:** I welcome reviews, especially those with constructive criticism (if said criticism is given in a polite tone, for if you merely complain but offer no solution, I will take it as a flame and pay you no mind). Obviously, flames are prohibited. But, if some do manage to come my way, I will just use them to warm me up some hot chocolate to drink as I start the next chapter. ^_^

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

**"A Missing Boswell"**

A week later found Sherlock Holmes pacing in the sitting room of Baker Street, smoking his pipe as he tried to run through his thoughts logically. The case presented to him by Lestrade had been most disappointing, as it was actually not quite complicated at all. The reason as to why the young lawyer was in West End was to try to help an old friend who had fallen on hard times and been demoted to East End for a living. However, his said friend had turned to thievery and was expecting someone would come to steal it back. It had been night, and when his friend called, he'd shot a pistol without thinking. A cruel twist of fate. Due to the circumstances and the man's obvious guilt and regret, the courts and Lestrade had, once he'd been tracked down by Holmes himself, seen fit to give him penal service for a set of months. All in all it had not been so challenging a case.

However, Holmes was troubled by a deeper problem. His faithful biographer and friend, Watson, had not returned as expected. A week had been the time given by the doctor himself, but he was a day late. Holmes knew his friend to be of usually the utmost punctuality and was thus instantly on edge and, dare he admit it, concerned. Maybe it was nothing, but Holmes' instincts told him to not be sure of that.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson," he said, recognizing the soft rap he associated with his long-suffering landlady.

"Mr. Holmes, pardon if I'm interrupting your thoughts, but I have a task from the good doctor to see through," she said, coming over to him. He noticed that she looked as if she was prepared for the Doctor's absence. She also had a folded paper in her hand, which he instantly recognized as one Watson used for his usual manuscripts of their cases.

"What task may that be, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, putting the pipe out and setting it on the mantlepiece.

The kind lady placed in his hands the letter which she'd brought in. "He asked me to give that to you should he not arrive back on time."

Holmes held the letter in his hands. "Did he say anything else before he left?" he asked.

"Just that I should make sure you eat the supper I'd prepared so you could work in top form," Mrs. Hudson said, a smile on her face.

Holmes nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Seeing the dismissal as a wish to read the letter in private, the landlady took her leave of the sitting room to leave Holmes alone. No sooner had she shut the door behind her, Holmes was sitting on the settee, opening the letter in a careful haste, so as to not tear it. On the paper was Watson's handwriting, though he noted instantly that by the small grooves in the letters that Watson had written it with a shaking hand, not from his old war wounds, but from emotion.

_My dear Holmes,_

_I had hoped that I would never have to write you this letter. If this was indeed how you felt at Reichenbach, then I can only praise the control you have over your person._

_I know I have said that our friendship should call for no secrecy between us, and yet it is here I admit myself as a hypocrite. I have kept a secret from not only you, but everyone I know, for years. _

_If you go up to my room, there is a loose floorboard under my bed. Inside the small space it hides, there is a journal of mine, within it the letter you saw me recieve at the very back. I must ask you to read the entire journal first, and then the letter. _

_My dear fellow, I leave these to you so you may know the secret of which I have hid these many years. The last request I ask of you Holmes, is that you do not try to locate me. Indeed, if I am not back in Baker Street yet, there may be the chance I am no longer anywhere to locate._

_Regardless, my absence will bring pain to those I know, and most certainly, dear Holmes, to you. However, if there is anything that lies unspoken between us, read my writings on our cases. Behind the logic and the mysteries, everything I would want to say to you is there, immortalized on paper. _

_I apologize for my deception but do not doubt that I am, Holmes, very sincerely yours. -Dr. John H. Watson._

By the end of the third paragraph, Holmes was already up the stairs and entering Watson's room. He had paused in his reading of the letter to nearly flip the bed over in his haste to move it, and after passing his fingers over the floorboards, found the one Watson spoke of. Removing it, he indeed saw and retrieved the journal and letter described to him. Placing himself cross-legged on the floor, it was then he resumed the letter Watson had left him.

By the end, Holmes could have cursed his instincts for once again ringing true to the situation. He was now deeply troubled, and Holmes, ever described as an automaton by Watson himself, felt an emotion course through his whole being. He could not precisely name it, but it was certainly the most negative he had ever felt. _'If this was how you felt reading my letter at Reichenbach, Watson, then I can say the same to you,' _Holmes thought as he stared at the letter.

Many sentences struck out at him from its contents.

_I have kept a secret from not only you, but everyone I know, for years. _

This intrigued Holmes. His friend did not make a good liar; he is much too true to his morals and too faithful to those important to him. Holmes himself could usually read Watson like an open book and was easily able to distinguish when he was not telling the whole truth or holding something back. For Watson to have successfully withheld a secret from even himself, then it must be very grave indeed.

He recalled the last night he'd seen Watson, and the only thing off about him had been his sudden cease of movement. He had seen the look in Watson's eyes as he'd read the letter now in the journal, and had attributed it to his friend's past in Afghanistan. During their early days at Baker Street, the worn soldier had been plagued by nightmares of his time of service for some time. It had gotten less frequent over the course of their friendship, the only exception being the three years he himself had pretended to be dead... a fact that still loomed over Holmes' conscience. However, Watson had appeared, by all stands, perfectly normal during their exchange. Now he feared that maybe the story about Austen Bennet was also a lie.

_The last request I ask of you Holmes, is that you do not try to locate me. _

By far that was the most preposterous sentence in the whole of the letter now in his hands. Never had someone, least of all Watson, asked of him such a ridiculous request. His self-admitted hypocrite of a friend was contradicting his very own nature. It was Holmes' nature to look at a problem from all sides and delve into the puzzle in hopes of solving it and obtaining the answers. To ask Holmes not to look for his friend was, in all circumstances, absurd.

Holmes usually didn't defer to Watson's wishes unless he saw the logic in them, or at least understandable worry in Watson's eyes. This time was no different. He could, at the moment, see no logic in this request, nor did it sound as if Watson was worried about him. Indeed, Watson's letter gave the impression of the the doctor begging him not to get involved. With no reason behind this known as of yet, Holmes firmly decided to ignore this request.

_Indeed, if I am not back in Baker Street yet, there may be the chance I am no longer anywhere to locate._

This sentence worried Holmes to no end. The last part of the sentence seemed to echo in the cavity of his mind like a bad omen.

Holmes refused to believe it. He could accept that his good friend was no longer around. It was entirely too impossible, and it was certainly not something he'd ever been - or ever will be - prepared for.

_However, if there is anything that lies unspoken between us, read my writings on our cases. Behind the logic and the mysteries, everything I would want to say to you is there, immortalized on paper._

However much Holmes was not prepared for a situation such as this, it seemed as though Watson was the exact opposite. Often, Holmes told Watson how he wasn't very interested in his reaccounts of their cases, much to the doctor's disappointment. Watson had a romanticist streak in his writings, which sometimes took the focus off of the lessons in deduction the mystery presented. However, he had once had to write out one of his own cases in one of Watson's absences, and admitted that it was hard to keep the audiences attention if one just stuck to the facts and not the story behind it. Even so, he never much looked at the writings of his companion, and when he did, it usually was just to look back at the logic. Watson knew this, and had basically told him to read between the lines.

_I am, Holmes, very sincerely yours. _

At these words, Holmes could feel the logic he ran on halt abruptly. These few words very much echoed the last words he'd thought he'd ever write to Watson those many years ago as he stood on the edge of Reichenbach Falls, writing it with the curtesy of Professor Moriarty. Now he understood exactly how Watson felt, and felt that Watson had described it very accurately in _'The Final Problem'_ - "cold and sick."

Holmes set the letter from Watson down on the floor as he turned his attention to the journal. It felt heavy in his hands, for he knew that it held the weight of the only secret the honest doctor had ever kept from everyone he knew. On the surface, he could deduce very little. It was a simple journal, leather-bound, worn enough to know that it had seen better days, a broken lock on the cover with a tear on the back cover to show where a strap had once been, and bent here and there in a way that showed it had been very often used. Plus, going from the bits of dust that seemed permanently fused to it in places, it was obvious to conclude that Watson had owned it throughout his military career.

Taking a deep breath to clear and focus his mind on its upcoming task, he opened the book to the front page and prepared for whatever its contents would deliver.

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><p><strong>Midnight's Note: <strong>I know the chapters seem kinda short at the moment, but as the story gets more involved, it'll get longer. Next chapter begins the mystery of Watson's past, and how it will change Holmes' view of his friend greatly.


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